


in life we wonder

by sinpie (KajouAsuka)



Series: in life and in death [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alva - Freeform, Arcem-Alva, Gen, Reluir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8376835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KajouAsuka/pseuds/sinpie
Summary: The carriage door opens and she steps out, disregarding the hand stretched out to help her with nary a glance. She looks about, head barely turning and gaze kept measured and blank, but he knows with a confident certainty what she sees.  Nothing.  (Or, the lady returns home, and Dyarmad hates, hates, hates.)





	

Sunlight streams into the spacious drawing room, peeking in through the cover of the heavy curtain and providing what little light it can. The room’s single occupant breathes slowly in the tranquility of almost darkness, dark thoughts in dark places and even darker grins. 

 

Dyarmad lifts up a hand, letting the sunlight play on his skin (grey, like most elves, with the slightest tinge of blue or purple, depending on the light) as he clenches and unclenches his hand. He keeps this up for a few moments, expression carefully blank. 

 

Then - 

 

He drops his hand, drops his head, and begins to laugh.

 

(It isn’t particularly pleasant to hear, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time they meet, Dyarmad is nothing more than a child, barely a teen, for all that his legs and arms and body have developed. He’s small for his age, well into his second decade, growing at an elven rate. The growth will plateau later on, but the development will not. He already has stunning memory, in spite of his age. 

 

(It is his blessing. 

 

It is also his curse.)

 

He’s shouting about something, something he can no longer recall (or so he tells himself, pushing away the flashes of frills and pink and teasing giggling), tiny little body shaking, vitriol bubbling over as he shouts himself hoarse, abuse spilling from his lips like drops of water. He’s small, he is, but the servants cower anyway, because he is a noble and he is their master, and the hierarchy has never been so blatant. 

 

There is no one who can stop him as he rages, child-like and yet not, because he is a teen in body but a child in mind. His parents are conspicuously absent, but Dyarmad doesn’t notice, not at the moment, caught in the throes of his anger. He shouts and yells and works himself into a fit until he’s throwing things, both precious and not, all the more riled. 

 

His parents are not there. Instead, there is - 

 

Her. 

 

The doors to his room push open and the servants are somehow dismissed. All this without Dyarmad noticing, because he is angry and distracted and very much focused on spewing forth his hate. For this, for that, for everything. He goes on and on for a while, but he eventually notices that there’s virtually no one else in his room. No one except a girl. 

 

They seem to be roughly the same age, something he notices when he whirls around to glare at her, his silver against her gold, for all that that can mean nothing when faced against the longevity of the elves and their tendency to look not their real age. He glares at her with all the effort he can muster, but she does nothing but quirk her eyebrow at him and spread her lips into a small grin. His fury almost sparks again, but she steps closer and suddenly he recognizes her, and his fury sputters out from shock.

 

Something must show on her face, because the grin on the girl’s face widens. “Finally done, are you?”

 

The frown that had started to slip comes back full force, and he crosses his arms and glares at her again. He knows who she is (even though he’s only ever seen her at a distance, and always from a slight bow), knows that he’s technically not showing proper respect at the moment, but he’s too keyed up, too incensed to really care. “What’s it to you?” He bites out, managing to attach the mandated title to the end of his question. 

 

She shrugs, drifting over to the overturned table and crouching to pick something up. He vaguely recognizes it as a small bell, one piece of an ornament he’d once had, back before he’d thrown it at the head of one of his servants and heard it crash against the wall with something like satisfaction bubbling in his chest. She turns it over in her hands, this way and that, and Dyarmad feels the silence ticking by (even though the grandfather clock was one of the first casualties). He opens his mouth to ask again, possibly to even insinuate she was deaf in any way, but the girl speaks first, and he clenches his mouth shut again, teeth gnashing and eyes flashing. 

 

“I could hear you from several halls over. You’ve got a great big set of lungs, you know, for being so small,” she says, a laughing curve to her mouth that says she knows what she did, speaking when she did. “A great big mouth, too,” she continues, teeth catching on her lip as she fiddles with the bell in her fingers, and Dyarmad realizes she’s trying to keep from laughing. 

 

It doesn’t make him angry. 

 

It makes him _ballistic_.

 

He takes a step forward, a gesture meant to be threatening, but with the distance shortened it’s apparent that she’s taller than him, and he falters for a moment, but pushes on forwards with all the swagger he can pull off, a child within a child. He rages and blusters, voice building up and up and louder and _louder_ -

 

and he gets hit on the forehead.

 

The projectile is small, and he gets hit as he turns to face the girl again, and there’s barely any pain beyond a slight sting, but he shuts up all the same. He freezes, trying to make sense of what has happened, and laughter fills his ears. He looks at the girl, sees her bent over with her arms over her stomach as she laughs.

 

“Y-Your face!” she gasps out, giggling still, gesturing at the whole of him, ignoring or perhaps not noticing the flush that’s slowly creeping up on Dyarmad. Seething, he looks around for the projectile. He spots it a few centimeters from where he’s standing, the same bell the girl had picked up from the ground. He crouches too, reaches over to pick it up, echoing the same motion. 

 

When he looks up, the girl is grinning at him again. He frowns, rolling the bell between his fingers. It’s smoother than it looks. He looks at it, contemplates.

 

“You really should stop shouting so loud, though. At this rate, the whole of Reluir will hear y-eep!” the girl dodges the bell and dances out the door, giggling all the way. 

 

The laughter rings in his ears. 

 

(Later on when the servants are clearing out his room and setting things to right again, Dyarmad stands in the middle of the room. The servants move quietly around him, hesitant and unwilling to spark their young master’s ire again. They do not speak to him. 

 

Dyarmad returns the favor. 

 

He only looks down at his palm, seeing the glint of burnished gold. If it is because of the bell, or because of something else, he does not say.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The laughter rings in his ears._

 

Dyarmad lifts his head, sighing out his amusement as he reclines against the couch, legs crossing at the ankles on the footrest. Ice clinks in the glass in his hand, amber liquid swirling inside the clear, cold glass. He brings it to his lips and takes a sip, relishing in the burn, cold and hot, ice and fire, rushing down his throat. 

 

His eyes flicker to the innocuous drawer of his vanity desk. He looks away right after, knowing that if he keeps his gaze there he will eventually be drawn closer. 

 

Closer, closer, closer, until he will find himself unlocking the wards and brushing away the seals, until he will open the drawer and stare at the things he has kept inside, silver catching on gold before drifting away. 

 

 _Treasure_ , his traitorous mind will whisper.

 

 _Trash_ , he will hiss back, slamming the drawer shut and slinking away. He will tell himself he is not running away, that he will throw away the things inside later, tail tucked between his legs, dodging from memories coming unbidden.

 

(He has always been good at lying to himself, and this time will be no different.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t see the girl again for a long while, save for the seldom instances when they pass by each other on the hallways. 

 

(It’s not so much passing each other as him stepping to the side, head slightly bowed with his father’s heavy hold on his shoulder and an equally-heavy gaze passing over him. _The Mheur must always show respect to the Priomh_ , his mother tells him in hushed tones. _They are Priomh for a reason_ , his father intones, respect and pride and something else Dyarmad can’t quite figure out mixing in the elder elf’s eyes, turning the pale grey darker. 

 

 _The Bhan-Iarla_ , he thinks, glee and childish pride making him giddy, 

 

His mother and father’s words repeat in his mind as he inclines his head, mixing and meshing and something he tells himself as he keeps his head down in the proper form of respect. It doesn’t quite soothe the wounded pride he gains from glancing up briefly and seeing the Bhan-Iarla gazing at him and then dismissing him entirely with that single, measuring glance.

 

Neither does the girl help, never so much as glancing his way, happily chattering to her mother as she pulls and pulls her along, secure in her position as the cherished daughter of the Family. The Bhan-Iarla smooths a gentle hand down her daughter’s hair, a few, soft words calming her boisterousness. 

 

The two vanish round the corner, attended to dutifully by their servants, and Dyarmad thinks as he straightens up, gazing after them even as his father resumes his pace down the hallway, confident his son will follow.

 

 _You will see me_ , he promises, the image of the two’s backs burnished in his mind, _you will._

 

They don’t, not for a long time, but by then the Bhan-Iarla is weak and the girl is gone.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time they get to speak to each other (directly and on somewhat equal grounds) comes entirely as a surprise. 

 

(Or not, knowing his mother’s penchant for harmless tricks that somewhat entirely do more good than bad. That, and she’d been rather insistent he make his rounds in the gardens. 

 

He’d been entirely too distracted by the thought of being able to practice his magic without the supervision of adults to protest. Much.)

 

He has his nose buried in a book, mind filling slowly with spells and incantations and verses, distracted enough to miss the small twig-of-a-leg in his way. He pays for that distraction with a nose-dive to the ground and a banged up chin from hitting it against the corner of his hardbound book. 

 

He rises up from the ground with fire in his eyes, temper rising easily to the surface, and he starts off on a rant heated enough to keep away the servants who had seen the whole thing. 

 

(He suspects later on that the gossip will have made its rounds through the servants by noon, and wonder how exactly repercussions hadn’t been meted out. He will refuse to ponder on its implications, once he connect the dots even later on.)

 

“What,” he absolutely hisses out, “is going on here? Is there some Atros-forsaken reason you’re on the ground, lying around and waiting for people to just trip over you? You utterly worthless, disabled, moronic _imbecile_ \--”

 

Dyarmad stops suddenly, nearly biting off his tongue in the process, as a seed of dread slowly starts to grow in his chest, even as he tries to cover it up with blustering confidence. It had not been a servant that he had tripped over, like he’d thought, but the girl.

 

The girl. Beloved child of the Priomh, scion of the Family. This was the one he’d called an imbecile. 

 

Panic starts to well up in him, because servants had been lashed for less, and though he is no mere servant (he is still a child of the Family, if one of the Mheur) he has still unflinchingly and unfailingly called the ‘treasured child’ worthless, disabled, moronic, _imbecile_. Even just daring to raise his voice would have been cause for alarm from the Priomh. 

 

Luckily, (or unluckily, he will never be quite sure as he goes over the memory later on) it seemed the girl hadn’t noticed, or if she had, she failed to give a sign that she cared. Somehow, the former seems more plausible to him. He can’t quite believe she wouldn’t at least show affront at his daring. 

 

The girl continues to lie there, seemingly content as she ponders, uncaring of what will no doubt be spectacular grass stains on her dress. He stares at her, panic and dread set aside for the moment but not forgotten, and after a beat she slides her gaze onto him. He stiffens at the blankness of her gold sheen. After a slow blink, awareness blooms into her eyes and she blinks again, as if surprised at seeing him standing there. 

 

Somehow that irritates him all the more. He bristles but holds his tongue, now aware of the servants lurking just on the edge of his senses, knowing they will act if he does anything rasher. He thinks the only reason they did not intervene earlier is because the girl hadn’t done anything either. 

 

Instead, he watches her as she pushes herself up onto a sitting position, contorting her arms in a way that makes him wince inwardly. She grins toothily at him. 

 

“No servants to shout at today?” she asks him, mischief dancing in her eyes. She’s teasing him, he knows, but he also wonders if this is her hinting that she had heard him all the while through his rant. He clenches his teeth, fists closed tight.

 

“I’m sorry--” he manages to choke out, the words foreign on his tongue and not entirely welcome but needed anyway, but the girl only flaps her hand carelessly at him, cutting him off. She flops back down on the ground, shimmying as if it would make the ground any softer even as she speaks.

 

“It’s alright,” she says, the teasing tone fading from her voice, a somber expression chasing its way onto her face. He frowns, not knowing how to reply, thrown off by the rapid change of moods. 

 

(He doesn’t know her well. The two of them, though cousins, are kept away from each other for the most part, if only because he follows his father on his duties and she whiles her days away playing. 

 

But he knows of her, has heard enough of her from family and servants alike, and knows that she is perpetually sunny and constantly smiling. To see her so serious is a jarring image, one he is not quite sure he likes.)

 

“Hey, Dyarmad?” her voice cuts into his thoughts, and the fact that she even knows his name strikes him dumb for a few moments. He doesn’t know why he is so shocked, they _are_ cousins after all. 

 

“Yes?” he asks slowly after he recovers, wariness and curiosity warring inside him and coloring his tone. He’s heard enough tales of her never-ending mischief and where it takes her to be entirely trusting of this sudden, serious girl. Perhaps she is playing a trick on him, making him lower his guard with her severity before striking. It certainly doesn’t seem far-fetched. 

 

She’s quiet for a measure of seconds, and he’s gearing up to repeat his answer, this time with just a smidge of irritation bleeding through, but eventually when she speaks her mind he is struck dumb for the second time.

 

“Why is there a class-based hierarchy here in Reluir?” she asks in a rush, as if it had been weighing on her mind for some time and getting it out was like a huge weight lifting off of her tiny, tiny, shoulders. 

 

Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. It then dawns on him what this is about, and he recalls the frantic buzz in the Family as the news spread of their ‘treasured child’ nearly marred by the ‘brainless masses’.

 

(He recalls his father frowning heavily when he hears of what happened, remembers his mother’s shaky attempt to calm him. He’s not quite sure what has happened, only catches snatches of the conversation for himself, but he gathers enough to piece most of it together. 

 

He’s not sure what alarms him more, the thought that those low lives are getting so gutsy, or that his cousin had come so close to being hurt, if only because he takes pride in his Family, and any attack made on them is an attack made on him. 

 

He says as much to his parents, gaining a wearily amused look from them, reminding them that he is as much a child as he is smart.)

 

It is already a few weeks after that day, and it might seem like quite some time, but to them, to elves with so long a life stretched out before them, the weeks are merely a blink and a glance. It says something about how much of the entire thing has lain heavily on the girl, his cousin’s mind. (He’s heard she greatly prefers work over play, and doesn’t deal with her studies more than she’s required to.)

 

“Why,” he starts out, hesitating briefly before soldiering on, letting nothing but measured evenness color his voice. “Why are you asking?”

 

He’s asking to both sate his curiosity and to gain himself some time if she really does need a comprehensive answer. But he can’t give her what she needs, simply because _he doesn’t know._ All his life he has known that he is part of the top and the others are all below him, and never once has he questioned why. He is comfortable where he stands. 

 

(Later on in his life though, this will change, and he will look back on this moment as when it all began.)

 

“I-I don’t know...” the girl answers falteringly, teeth catching on her lip as she thinks. Her brows lower in a faint frown, and she looks at him, looks at him as if he could actually answer her question. He can’t, and that irritates him.

 

So he tries something different.

 

“Does it matter?” he bites out, crossing his arms huffily. He’s starting to regret following his mother’s pushiness and coming out here, and it shows. “It’s there because it’s there. Stop thinking so hard about it, it’s stupid.”

 

Disappointment bleeds into the girl’s gaze before she looks away abruptly, pushing herself up again and shrugging. Dyarmad catches the flash though, and it annoys him all the more, that this girl can come up and demand answers from him, answers he can’t give, and dare to feel let down when he can’t. His face twists into a sneer even as he watches her get up, golden gaze carefully averted from his.

 

She turns to look at him though, meeting his gaze evenly, and at that moment he can see the resemblance between her and her mother, the Bhan-Iarla showing through in her calm countenance and soft quirk of the lips. Suddenly, she smiles brightly, and the image fades, leaving Dyarmad wondering if he imagined it. Surely he has, because this too-cheerful girl in front of him is nothing like the graceful and epitome of ladylike manners Bhan-Iarla, nevermind the blood. 

 

“Come play with me!” she exclaims, and this is more like the girl he knows of, the one he threw a bell at for laughing at him, precocious and tricky. He relaxes minutely, though the frown on his face deepens and he blanches at the words. 

 

“I think not,” he sniffs primly, turning up his nose figuratively at the suggestion. It’s ironic that he’s the one rebuffing the girl when she is of a higher importance than him, but then he’s childish that way. It feels good to be the one to decide, to be the one with power.

 

The girl pouts and needles at him, and he refuses her time and time again, picking up his previously-forgotten book and dusting it off. She eventually just comes over to his side and drags him bodily and physically into playing with her, goading him into it when she can’t use force. 

 

Somehow, he manages to even enjoy himself after a while, even though he had staunchly opposed the idea in the beginning. It’s more fun than he thought it would be, and though he will never tell that to the girl lest she get more ideas of dragging him after her again, he can at least admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, this one time was alright.

 

They end up lying on the ground under the shade of a large weeping willow, panting and giddy with laughter and childish glee dancing in their eyes as the leaves shield them from the sun’s glare. During their play the girl manages to bait Dyarmad into calling her her first name, and though he rolls his eyes and plays at being annoyed, he eventually shapes his lips around the syllable of her name, something like pride and joy mixing in him at the thought of calling her so familiarly. 

 

(He is one step closer to making them, the Bhan-Iarla especially, _see_ him, he thinks. He is not wrong, but he is not right, either.)

 

It is the first time they interact like this, but it will not be the last, not for many years to come.

 

 _Una_ , he calls to her, longsuffering and resigned.

 

 _Dyarmad_ , she answers, gleeful and cheeks dimpling.

 

(This is truly where it all began, before decades later Dyarmad finds an expasive room desolate and bereft of belongings, the doors to the balcony wide open and the curtains swinging sadly in the breeze, and he _knows_.

 

Knows, but does not understand, because how could he? 

 

Una is _gone._ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A knock sounds at the door, echoing in the silence but not. No, the echoes are in Dyarmad’s mind, bouncing through the darkness and his cheerless thoughts.

 

(It sounds suspiciously like a woman’s laughter, but that is a thought he is not willing to entertain.)

 

“What is it?” he snaps out, annoyed despite himself, and he takes a small measure of dark satisfaction at the sense of hesitation on the other side of the door. The servants’ fear and respect for him has only grown through the years, sometimes one overpowering the other. He is careful to keep a healthy balance between the two. Mostly.

 

“The carriage has been spotted, sir. They will arrive in fifteen minutes,” the servant answers succinctly, only a hint of hesitance belying the confidence in the servant’s voice. The hesitance is well-reasoned. “The Bhan-Iarla has summoned everyone to the lawn in preparation.”

 

Dyarmad turns the words over in his mind, absently making a noise to let the servant know he’s understood, his grip on the glass tightening and loosening in intervals. Finally, he throws back the last of the amber liquid, grimacing slightly at the diluted taste due to the melted ice merging with the liquor. He has spent too much time reliving memories, and now it’s time to face another. 

 

He takes his time arranging himself, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in his rich clothing, arranging his hair just so, and looks at himself in the mirror. His hands drop slowly, steely silver picking out miniscule details that seem off to him but would not be noticed by anyone else anytime soon. Eventually, he draws himself up, shedding the memories and the emotions and locking it all away. They will not help him, not here, not now.

 

He leaves the glass on a side table, condensation dripping slowly down its sides, light glinting off and landing on the drawer he kept out of mind. The taste the amber liquid leaves in the back of his throat tastes faintly of something too much like desperation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s standing with the rest of the Family on the lawn, the grass kept carefully cultivated by the myriad of servants the Family has in employ. The Iarla and Bhan-Iarla are at the forefront of their greeting party, though their eldest daughter is nowhere to be found. There is an energy buzzing around them, tension hinted at in the strong line of the Iarla’s back and the press of the Bhan-Iarla’s lips. 

 

They’re eager for the carriage to come around the bend, he realizes, eager for their wayward daughter to return to them, and it shows. Dyarmad narrows his eyes minutely as he lingers in the background, keeping to the shadows before he takes his place by his parents a few meters from the Iarla and the Bhan-Iarla. A presence to the side and back of him makes itself known. 

 

“Dyarmad,” the presence says. He shifts where he stands, angling his body towards the person yet keeping the scene within his line of sight. Vika, he thinks, and comes face to face with the Heir of the Family. He looks over her for a moment before dipping his head in respect, a hand coming up automatically to rest at his chest. 

 

“Oidhre,” he answers before straightening and meeting her gaze evenly. 

 

Decades ago this wouldn’t have been possible, this meeting on mostly equal grounds. Vika is the Heir, and it entirely merits the capitalization it has, because she will inherit the title and the responsibility and even as he’d chased around a little girl and been chased in turn, the older female elf had already been in the process of being groomed for the position. 

 

He had been even farther from the social circle of the Heir than he’d been of Una, and certainly in other circumstances he never would have gotten close to her until well into their adulthood, when he himself took over the duties of his parents. But his friendship with Una (and how loathe he is to call it that, because there has never been and never will be a friendship between the two of them, and she’d shown that the moment she decided to leave) had brought him into the detection of the Heir, and over the decades they’ve built up a casual rapport based on a shared love (not that, never that, not for him) for the little girl that Una had been.

 

He owes a lot of it to a girl. A girl who in the end had run away and left behind everything she had. The thought, along with the reminder it brings, annoys him. He shows nothing, instead looking back at the Family, waiting, watching. 

 

(He thinks Vika sees it anyway, based on the amused quirk of her lips. She has always been entirely too perceptive, and she sees into him easily, always has since their first meeting. 

 

He doesn’t like it, and likely never will, the thought of being so exposed, but she is Heir. She is Priomh. 

 

He is only Mheur.)

 

“How many years has it been?” she asks, her voice quiet yet steely underneath her bland tone. _How many years since you’ve seen her,_ goes unsaid. 

 

He shifts his gaze back to her, cocking his head in faked confusion. The two of them know very well how long it has been, how many years have passed since they’ve lain eyes on their mutual friend (and in this context he uses the word loosely). It has become somewhat of a game between them, teasing out reactions behind veiled words and quirked lips. 

 

“I’m not quite sure, Oidhre,” he lies, words dripping with apology, dropping his gaze briefly and dipping his head. It is a lie. “I’ve been too busy to take notice.” That, too. 

 

( _Ten years_ , his mind so helpfully supplies, _a decade since he arrived home from the city-proper and discovered the Family unsettled and Una nowhere to be found._

 

Resentment had begun to burn in him by the first year. He does not understand her choice. He thinks he never has understood _her_.

 

If, at times, he will turn to speak and find no one to be there, expectations shrivelling up, well. Nobody has to know.)

 

Vika merely hums noncommittally, neither accepting his lie nor calling him out on it. This too, is a part of their game. She watches him for a moment, and he her, before her gaze flicker to behind him and a smile spreads on her lips, slow and sly. “She’s here,” she says. 

 

He tries not to stiffen, but the amused glance Vika shoots him tells him he is less than successful. She does not comment, but her smile widens, and she brushes past him to join her parents at the forefront. 

 

Dyarmad turns but does not follow, silver gaze trained on the carriage that comes moving down the road, the pace slow and steady. It’s the Family carriage, he thinks absently, bedecked in the Family colors, gold and maroon, and he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. This is the ‘treasured daughter’ of the Family, and the Iarla and Bhan-Iarla are nothing if not eager to have her back.

 

It comes to a stop a few meters from the Iarla and Bhan-Iarla, and he can practically taste the anticipation the Family has for the wayward scion of the Priomh to step out of the carriage. A servant comes forward to wait by the carriage door, ready to serve the one emerging. For a few moments, nothing happens, and Dyarmad’s tempted to laugh. Laugh because surely the one inside the carriage is merely taking her own sweet time. 

 

(She’s always been like that, spoiled. He knows. He’s been the recipient of enough of her childish whims _not_ to.)

 

Eventually though-

 

The carriage door opens and Una steps out, disregarding the hand stretched out to help her with nary a glance. She looks about, head barely turning and gaze kept measured and blank, but he knows with a confident certainty what she sees. 

 

Nothing. 

 

(Once upon a time, he had thought she had seen him, that she had acknowledged him and seen who he was, and that she had returned the favor and allowed him to see her.

 

Once upon a time, he’d been young and stupid. 

 

Never again.)

 

The Iarla and Bhan-Iarla approach their daughter, Vika close on their heels, no doubt showering her with words of affection and welcome, but he’s a bit too far away to hear what it is exactly they’re saying. He doesn’t really care to know, anyway, and he stays where he is, though he knows that his parents will be looking for him. As if on cue, the other members of the Family start coming forward, surrounding her. 

 

He looks at her then, really looks, and notes the differences. Her hair is white, he realizes with some semblance of horror, not the dark locks that she’d once had. Her head turns to the side as she pays attention to the words of her sister, and he frowns. She’d pierced her ear too, and he follows the gentle swaying motion of the chain attached to her ear. Again, he’s not close enough to notice more, but he notices enough. 

 

She’s not comfortable, he thinks, and he feels satisfied. He does not want her comfortable at all. He looks at the line of her petite shoulders, seeing the barely there tension. It’s been ten years, but he still knows. 

 

Not her, apparently, but he knows _about_ her. 

 

Dyarmad shifts on his feet and somehow, suddenly, their gazes meet. Silver against gold, he can’t tell exactly what she’s thinking at the moment, what she’s feeling. There’s only several tens of meters between them, but there is a wealth of distance that separates them anyway. 

 

He holds her gaze, almost daring her to break first and look away, but she doesn’t, only clenches her jaw, and there’s that sense of familiarity in the motion that he can’t help but sneer. He doesn’t want to stay around any longer. 

 

He lifts his chin, turns on the spot, and leaves. He doesn’t look back. 

 

Una’s gaze is heavy on his shoulders anyway. 

 

He’s not running away. 

 

(Lying to himself doesn’t quite work as well this time.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You can’t avoid her forever, Dyarmad,” his brother says one day, accosting him while he is on his way to the stables. The elf in question scowls, edging past and entirely unwilling to have this conversation. Cath, the traitor, is merely amused and just a touch exasperated, as he always is when dealing with one of his three brothers, and follows behind. 

 

“I’m not avoiding anyone, Cathaoir,” he scoffs, powering on ahead without glancing back, and truly, he’s not. Tomorrow marks the day when Una has been back with the Family for a week already, and there is to be a banquet thrown in her honor. Dyarmad’s not stupid enough to get conscripted into the preparations, and wisely chooses to kept himself out of the way. 

 

(If it has the added benefit of not seeing Una, that’s merely icing on top of the cake.)

 

He turns a corner and is immediately faced with a throng of servants rushing to and fro. The preparations for Una’s welcome home feast has only been increasing in its frenzy. Now, only a day before, no one is free from the frenetic clutches of the last few remaining preparations to be done. Dyarmad weaves through the horde smoothly and Cath follows close behind. 

 

The servants part for them, dodging the two easily with their years of expertise. Immediately after clearing the busy junction, Dyarmad increases his pace down the hallway. He can almost taste the amusement emanating from the elf behind him. What Cath is doing still following him is suspect, considering the elf isn’t even wearing his riding breeches. 

 

“No? Then why does Mother insist on having you be the one to escort her?” Cath’s entirely too amused, and it shows. 

 

Dyarmad stops. 

 

From any other sibling of his, he would immediately call foul. But this is Cath - strangely honest at the best of times and discourteously blunt at the worst. Dyarmad is tempted to call foul anyway.

 

“She wouldn’t,” he settles for gritting out past clenched teeth. There is a vague hint of horror threaded through his voice, and something else Cath can’t quite catch. 

 

“She did,” Cath confirms. He seems vaguely apologetic, but Dyarmad doesn’t care about that at the moment. 

 

Oh, Atros save him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wind whips through his hair as he rides his horse through a path he knows like the back of his hand. The path is well-travelled, if a bit hidden from view from the main road. It twists and turns through the forest, rises and falls with gentle slopes, and eventually leads to a small lake he’d once discovered by chance. 

 

His mind wanders even as his body shifts in time with the bunching of muscles underneath him. He trusts his horse, his Ignis, trained her himself from when she was a mere foal. She is strong and regal, and will not lead him astray. 

 

A bit like his mother, actually. Dyarmad immediately winces at the thought of comparing his mother to his horse, but in the privacy of his mind, he will at least think about it. His mother is strong and regal and _proud_. 

 

(”Mother, you cannot expect me to be the one to escort the _‘beloved daughter’_ of the Family tomorrow,” Dyarmad seethes, right after he bursts into his parents’ rooms and startles his mother into dropping the letters she’d carefully been considering. 

 

His mother just sighs and sweeps the letters back into her hands before pinning him with a quelling look when he makes to continue. She has always been good at that. 

 

“I can, and you will,” she says. “Honestly, my dear, I am unaware of where this obstinacy comes from when it comes to Una. She and you were close childhood friends, if my memory serves.” And it does. Dyarmad gets most of his intelligence from her, after all. 

 

Dyarmad scoffs, crosses his arms. He knows precisely why he’s so against having anything to do with Una, but he has never told his mother the truth about the matter, and neither does he plan to anytime soon. Everyone just thinks he feels disdain for most people, Una included. It’s somewhat true, anyway.

 

“Childhood, Mother,” he retorts, stressing the first word. He shifts on his feet, scowling. “I just see no need to fawn over a _girl_ who has nothing to offer to the Family and ran away because of it.” 

 

In a flash his mother is by his side, her fingers digging into his arm. Her eyes bore into his and he swallows back a pained curse, staring back stubbornly. He knows he has crossed over an unspoken line, but he will not take back his words. 

 

“Be careful with your words, _child_ ,” his mother warns, breaking the stare to glance around, managing to make the word sound reproachful and proud at the same time. “The Priomh will not appreciate your thoughts.” 

 

His mother smiles, wryly. “Even the Mheur are not exempt from stigma if the Primoh deem it necessary,” she says, and her smile disappears, her dark eyes glinting. “So be careful, Dyarmad, because Una is still _your_ lady. She is Priomh.”

 

Dyarmad looks away, extracts his arm from his mother’s grip. “I am fully aware of that, Mother,” he says, ignoring her raised eyebrow. “Still, surely there must be some other unfortunate soul you can foist her off on--”

 

“Mama?” 

 

Liusaidh‘s voice calls out from the adjoining room, and her adorable lisp bursts the bubble of tension around them. His mother steps around him, disappearing into the next room for a few moments before reappearing with Liusaidh beside her. She is speaking to the child in soft tones, hushed words that Dyarmad could have made out if he bothers to. 

 

Dyarmad watches the scene, watches the two interact, and tries not to feel like an intruder. He is her blood, her eldest, but his mother has always wanted a girl to spoil. The adoption was inevitable. The lessening of attention to him, even more so. 

 

His lips quirk in a smile despite himself. Liusaidh is simply too charming, too innocent to dislike, and she makes his mother happy. It helps that the child adores him in ways he can’t comprehend. After a few moments, he makes to leave. A ride will help organize his thoughts, and he is severely overdue for one. 

 

The elf doesn’t get far before the pitter-patter of feet catch his attention and a weight upon his back nearly sends him careening to the floor. High-pitched laughter sounds in his ears, and Dyarmad mock-flails. Liusaidh’s giggles increase. 

 

Their mother watches indulgently for a few moments before wordlessly motioning for Dyarmad to set Liusaidh down. He does with a faux-regretful sigh, sharing a covert grin with his little sister. She smiles widely up at him, eyes crinkling in the corners. 

 

“Is she really home?” Liusaidh asks, excitement shining through. “Am I really going to see her? Oh, you’re so lucky, Dyarmad! Mother said you and her were very close when you were children- I want to see her up close too! Introduce me to her, please, _deartháir mór_?” 

 

Dyarmad doesn’t allow his brows to furrow, keeping his expression mild, not allowing his annoyance to seep through. He is loathe to disappoint his sister, but in this he cannot fold. Liusaidh has somehow built up a glorified image of Una in her head, based on the tales their mother and siblings regaled her with. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. There is nothing to admire about Una. 

 

“Perhaps later, _deirfiúr beag_ ,” he murmurs down at her, kneeling and smoothing a gentle hand over her head. He smothers a fond smile at her disappointed pout. Straightening, he brushes himself off and nods at his mother. He has stayed far longer than he should have - he is in dire need of a ride. Perhaps the fresh air will help clear his thoughts. 

 

“Dyarmad,” his mother calls out after him as he makes to leave the room, and he stills, head cocked. “The Bhan-Iarla was the one who chose you.” 

 

For a few long moments, he says nothing. Eventually he just nods his head jerkily, and disappears into the hallway.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hours before the banquet, Dyarmad takes a walk around the gardens of the estate. It’s not quite sunset yet, the sky stuck in a limbo between orange, pink and purple hues. The light paints the white buds of the tulips in different shades, a sky grounded on Alva. 

 

(As he walks, he’s not really paying attention to where he steps, and really, one would think he’d know better.

 

He doesn’t. And so history repeats itself.

 

But only up to a certain point.)

 

Dyarmad steps off the cobbled path and around a tree and, in one discombobulating flurry of movement, he finds himself staring up at the limbo-sky. He blinks for a few moments, caught off guard, before he comes back to himself and his temper flares up.

 

(In the back of his mind he notices the uncanny happenstance, but he buries it, doesn’t acknowledge that he even thought of it at all.

 

There’s no use dwelling in the past, except--

 

This is the present now, isn’t it?)

 

The elf rises up from the ground with grace that speaks of years of practice, and his eyes flash a stormy grey as his fury rises. He’s building himself up into what should be a truly spectacular dressing down (he’d once made a servant several decades older than him burst into tears), one fuelled by his frustration at his current situation and his ire in general.

 

(It’s his first mistake, leaping before looking.)

 

Before he manages to get out even a third of what he wants to say, a voice cuts through the haze. It’s a _very_ familiar voice, one he had hoped he wouldn’t have had to hear until later that day. Dyarmad stills, ice and fire warring inside him. He almost doesn’t dare to look.

 

(That’s his second mistake, looking before leaping.)

 

“Well, _you_ certainly haven’t changed,” Una muses out loud, laughter clear in the shine of her eyes - gold, so very gold - and the quirk of her lips. “You’re still as loud as I remember you to be.” 

 

Atros must be toying with him, presenting him with this-- this farce of a memory. The irony of the situation is not lost on him, and for a single hysterical moment, he’s back in his body of decades ago, faced with a familiar young girl that grew into a strange lady. 

 

The moment passes, and Dyarmad blinks. A scowl forms on his face even as his mind races. This is the last place he wants to be on Alva at the moment, with the last person he doesn’t even want to see. Outwardly, he crosses his arms, stands his ground. 

 

“And you’re still as obnoxious as ever. It’s almost as if you haven’t left, _Bhean_ ,” he replies. The words come out acerbic and with more irritation than he means to let through, but he has no plans of taking them back. He means it after all, and more importantly, he wants her to leave him alone. If caustic words and colder stares do it, well--

 

Una laughs, surprised. She looks away and Dyarmad wonders if he imagined the smidge of hurt in her eyes. Surely, he must have. The way she glances away reminds him of a conversation decades ago, under the same sky of a different color - only this time instead of disappointment there is an illusion of hurt. 

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says. Dyarmad wants to curse. 

 

“Contrary to what Koben has undoubtedly fed you, the world doesn’t quite revolve around you,” he retorts, sneering. “I have duties and responsibilities, something I can’t afford to _run away from_.” 

 

Una’s smile falters. Yet even as Dyarmad waits for that rush of satisfaction to well up, it doesn’t come. Somehow, that irritates him even more. It seems everything about Una just about angers him. (How is it she is still able to inspire this in him?)

 

This close he can finally look - _see_. She hasn’t changed much physically. Her hair is still achromic, a far cry from her natural inky locks. Her ear is pierced in two places, one long chain connecting the two. She is thinner, thinner than what he remembers (envisions?) her to be. 

 

But her eyes--

 

Her eyes tell a different story. Una has changed. It shows in the darkness lurking behind cheer in the golden sheen. It shows in the taut, wary way she holds herself. It shows in the clench of her knuckles, stark against the dark fabric of her gown. 

 

It shows. 

 

And Dyarmad can’t look away. Can’t forget.

 

Can’t stay. 

 

“If that is all,” he says stiffly, fists clenched behind his back, “the ball is commencing in several hours. The least you could do is to get ready.” 

 

Words bubble up and die in his throat, even though the urge is strong. He doesn’t quite know what else to say. 

 

He takes a step back, then another. One more. 

 

Eventually he turns, goes back the way he took. He doesn’t look back. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first thing he does when he gets back is to throw a glass against the wall. It shatters - crumbles and falls to the floor. 

 

(He doesn’t feel any better. The glass glints, mocking.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The banquet is in full swing, and Dyarmad is _desperate_ to leave. Unfortunately, he’s not desperate enough to try it. His mother has already seen to it that he can’t - she drops by every so often with Liusaidh and distracts him from it skillfully. Somehow, every time the urge gets too strong he spots her through the crowd, a smile on her lips and a warning in her eyes. 

 

Somehow, the urge subsides.

 

“ _Smile_ , brother. You look constipated,” Ria croons from beside him, flicking a long, dark lock of hair behind his shoulder. “I thought the point of parties was to enjoy yourself. And to get smashingly drunk, of course.”

 

His brother shoots him a winning smile. Dyarmad merely wants to groan.

 

Riaghan snatches two flutes of liquor from a passing servant, drowning one and offering the other to Dyarmad, who frowns and turns his head. He has no plans of getting drunk in this particular event. 

 

Unruffled, the younger of the two shrugs and tosses back the liquor. “More for me, then. Honestly, I’ve no idea why you’re staying here in this unglamorous spot, lurking. You’ve already done a wonderful service earlier, perfect gentlemen that you were with the _Bhean_. “

 

Is that how he sees it? Dyarmad has no reason to disagree, nor any energy to. He has done as asked of him - escorted Una and been the ‘perfect gentleman’ that his brother says he has been, if a bit cool and detached. 

 

There had been no words between the two of them. There had been no need to. 

 

(He doesn’t know what he’d say.)

 

“If this spot is quite as... _unglamorous_ as you say it is, just leave,” he mutters, leaning against the column they’re situated by, arms crossed. It’s to the side of the grand banquet hall, with arching ceilings and swirling columns. The hall has been revamped to suit the banquet’s needs, great swaths of silk and draperies decorating the bannisters and numerous tables are situated around, heaping with mouth-watering food. 

 

Riaghan scoffs. “And leave you all to your lonesome? Why, your face just might stay that way,” he titters, pressing gloved fingers against his lips. 

 

Dyarmad doesn’t respond, gaze trained on something across the hall. No, not on something, Riaghan realizes. _Someone_. He follows his brother's gaze, peering past pretty women and even prettier men - all garbed in lavish, exquisite clothes and he's almost distracted by the quality of the make _where did they get that_ \- and then he sees. 

 

Ah, of course. 

 

What else could have held his brother's attention away from him, his favorite little brother?

 

Riaghan curls his lips back into a small sneer. He doesn't know what to make of the fixation Dyarmad has on the _Bhean_ \- doesn't want to acknowledge it at all. But it is there, and he loathes it. 

 

He loathes it because he has seen what that woman’s departure has done to his brother. He has seen the broken remnants of Dyarmad’s room, the jagged pieces that his brother tries to hide. Despite what he says, Dyarmad had cherished Una. 

 

And she had thrown that back in his face. 

 

Riaghan had been one of the persons who'd supported his brother in the years after the _Bhean's_ departure - because no matter what one might say about him, Dyarmad had and always has supported his brothers, has loved them in his own way and now it is _their_ turn. 

 

Dyarmad had gotten better, over time. His smiles had shown easier, his laughter lighter. The tightness of his shoulders had never quite disappeared, but it had lessened. It had abated. 

 

(But now- 

 

now the _Bhean_ is back. 

 

And there is a heaviness to his brother that he abhors, that he thought gone.

 

It is all her fault, yet Dyarmad cannot keep away. 

 

And where does that leave Riaghan?

 

The answer scares him.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A touch to his shoulder drags Dyarmad's attention away from golden eyes and dark hair and swaying earpieces, and he turns his head to meet Riaghan's gaze squarely. Something flickers in his younger brother's eyes, too fast for him to make sense of, before Riaghan smirks and jerks his head. 

 

"Come, I'm sure Mother will at least let you out now," he says. "You and I are dressed far too glamorously to stay in this drab corner!" 

 

Riaghan loops an arm around his, strength belying his slender limbs, and drags him away. 

 

Dyarmad lets him, and wonders when his brother has become so adept at reading him.

 

(The ostentatious chandelier glitters overhead, gold and silver entwined.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the next few years, Una comes and goes. There is no schedule to her arrival and departure, the waxing and waning of a moon with no orbit.

 

Dyarmad keeps a distance, stays within the boundaries of their statuses. 

 

Eventually, it gets easier. 

 

He manages to greet her with no inflection, manages to treat her with the _respect_ her position deserves. He even manages to maintain a smooth disposition, hiding barbed words behind charming smiles and cutting edges behind courteous laughter. 

 

If Una notices, she shows nothing. She matches him word-for-word, throws sarcasm back in his face and never backs down. 

 

(Dyarmad finds it easier to breathe.

 

It’s almost the same, but it’s not.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s reminded of that years later.

 

(“Master, what shall I do with this? It only contains a small bell, but--”

 

“... It’s trash. 

 

Dispose of it.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They are not the same. They are not children anymore, giggling and playing under the shade of an old, old tree. 

 

This, Dyarmad knows very well. 

 

Una has changed, shifted in ways he can’t begin to comprehend. There is a darkness in her that alarms him - alarms him because it seems like only he can see it. 

 

(Or is it that she only shows it to him?)

 

The resentment still burns in him, but it is tempered now, tucked away where no one can see it. It burns through his veins, slow yet unyielding, but he is careful to never show it. 

 

(Una sees it anyway, he thinks.)

 

His mother would chide him, say that holding a grudge is petty and childish. 

 

They are not children anymore. 

 

But this--

 

This, Dyarmad will hold on to. 

 

(When Una has taken everything with her and left nothing - _him_ \- behind, this is what he will have left.

 

This, he will take to the grave.)

**Author's Note:**

> what is tense //sighs
> 
> una and dyarmad have such a complicated relationship, it's sort of hard to portray it.  
> still--
> 
> thank you for reading!


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